How Did You Die?
by Coneflower Adams
Summary: A very different look at the Newsies story, and this is a fic dedicated to a fellow newsie comrade who died.


How Did You Die?  
Disclaimer: January 14, 2000. I have to admit this is my most 'different' fanfic I've ever written. I was inspired to write this after reading a poem written by Edmund Cook. I use some of it in this story, so, that belongs to him. He's been died for seventy years so it probably doesn't matter. And, I was also inspired by the death of a fellow newsie comrade who I never knew, but she will always be one of us. Jack Kelly and the ideas from Newsies belong to Disney, my future employer. If you don't get this fanfic, I'll explain it to you. Just ask!   
  
As the autumn leaves fell carelessly to the dead ground below, the cold wind blow through the air with no care in the world. A sound of leaves crumpled in the distance, and a figure appeared. A boy in his teens walked in and out of the grave stones searching for nothing - no one in particular. Just looking…and wondering…and guessing…why… The boy stumbled, literally, upon a wooden plaque hidden in the colored leaves on the ground. He bent down slowly, staring down at the broken piece of wood. It was faded, but the red paint still stuck out at him like a blister on a heel.   
  
He turned it around and read:   
  
Jack Kelly   
1883-July 1899   
Always a Cowboy and Newsie at Heart   
CTB Forever   
  
The interest of the boy was caught on those few words and he wondered "How did you die?"   
  
"You are beaten to earth? Come up with a smiling face. It's nothing against you to fall down flat, but to lay there - that's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce; Be proud of your blackened eye! It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; It's how did you fight and why? If you battled the best you could; If you played your part in the world of men, Why, the Critic will call it good. Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce. It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, but how did you died?"   
  
He spoke these words as visions of images were bursting into his head. The boy saw fights and riots and…fun! It wasn't the happiest of life, but it was a life no less. It was something the boy could relate too.   
  
When he heard the calls. What were they calling? Headlines? He could hear something about 'burning inferno'. Other voices joined in fighting, conflict, betrayal….   
  
Why was this happening? What betrayal? Then it disappeared. The feel of betrayal was gone with the words 'scabbah' and 'bum' leaving his head for good. Once again the visions came back.   
  
How did you die?   
  
A strike. A hundred voices singing. They proclaimed that Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst were going to hear their voices. Pulitzer was becoming frantic. His hand gestures were out of control. He couldn't handle the voices that were suppose to be lower than his. The World will know and they did, but without THAT voice.   
  
How did you die?   
  
The visions turned to a child. A boy in pain. Scared for his life. An evil man smiling wickedly at him. A large building representing a jail stood in front of the boy and the evil man. Stealing food, was the crime the evil man proclaimed the boy had done. 'I was going to starve if I didn't steal it' the boy came into his own defense. Sentenced to the House of Refuge. Trapped forever. No! Wait! A man in a carriage. It appeared to be Teddy Roosevelt. A wonderless man, no doubt. The boy with him? It was the only way to escape.   
  
Visions of a browned headed girl smiled at him now. It was the happy time for the boy again. One out of a few. They talked and considered what would be best - New York or Santa Fe. It's the same sky. But, everything is bigger in Santa Fe. Why couldn't he just go to Santa Fe? Then I wouldn't have to ask - how did you die?   
  
Carrying the banner! Sleeping outside? No, hawkin' the headlines. Newsies on every corner of the crowded streets of New York City. Headlines don't sell papes, newsies sell papes. We're only improving the truth. Interesting….   
  
There was a bribe. Was…what had happen? It wasn't suppose to happen this way. There was suppose to be a happy ending. No one knew a happy ending in the summer of 1899. But…   
  
How did you die?   
  
They want things they know they can't have. All because their picture is in the a newspaper. Why did that man have to do that? The evil man knows now. He's coming for him. It wasn't suppose to happen this way.   
  
A speech. A long and good one too. The last one. 'Stop soakin' the scabs'! They agreed. Now for a happy moment in a messed up life. An old friend singing and dancing and making people happy. It was the performer. His…friend? Aunt? Mother? Only they knew.   
  
How did you die?   
  
It was coming. He was coming. With thugs, chains, the whole work of stopping the hundreds of voices. They wouldn't be stopped that easy. Only one would. Running, chaos, conflict….it would be over soon. He ran outside. Trapped! He ran inside trying to escape. Up the stairs. Watch out! Don't go there! NO!   
  
Was that how you died? A gun in the hand of a man you never met? Instead of a fist, it was a gun. It wasn't suppose to happen this way. It was over. Friends gathered round to see their fallen comrade gone forever.   
  
Jack Kelly, only seventeen years old. My age. My friend. Now, I know how you died…   



End file.
